


Faith

by hedda62



Category: Person of Interest (TV), White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 21:21:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedda62/pseuds/hedda62
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Burke goes to a funeral and has a conversation.  Spoilers for Person of Interest through 2.12, "Prisoner's Dilemma."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faith

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linman/gifts).



> The White Collar timeline is an exercise in frustration, so I have taken it on myself to decide this takes place after 4.12, "Brass Tacks" (and in the more easily read PoI timeline, after 2.13, "Dead Reckoning").
> 
> For linman/penwiper26, in celebration of luring each other into fandoms. :)

_I am the resurrection and the life…_

Peter fingered the keys and cell phone in his pockets again, then took his hands out and clasped them together in front of him: he shouldn't be fidgeting. Unfortunately, though, he'd heard the words of the funeral service too many times to really listen to them now. There'd been worse funerals, of course. Today he just felt generically sorry; Nick Donnelly had been a good agent, but Peter hadn't known him that well. They'd collaborated on one case since Donnelly had transferred to New York, exchanged information on a few others. He'd been one of the many in the Bureau who'd looked askance at Peter's association with Neal (not that Peter didn't feel that way himself sometimes. Often. But obvious disapproval always prompted the urge to defend).

Neal wasn't here today; Peter hadn't even asked him whether he wanted to come. Diana was standing with a friend a few yards away; Jones was in Brooklyn investigating a series of forgeries. Many familiar faces dotted the crowd, but there were some Peter didn't know, including a striking African-American woman in NYPD dress uniform bowing her head in the row in front of him.

_The company of the faithful,_ Peter heard, and wondered if there was anything that everyone here had faith in. He wanted to say yes: their country, defense of law and justice, taking down criminals like the one who'd smashed into Nick Donnelly's car and shot him dead. Once he would have believed absolutely in that accord, before he'd witnessed injustice and betrayal and purposeful ignorance wriggle their way into hearts and minds, before he'd met people like Senator Pratt. Still, he'd prefer to answer the question that way, and he thought most of those here would too; he just wasn't sure that saying the words meant anything. But then he'd always thought actions spoke louder than words.

He put his hands in his pockets again.

Finally it was all over; Donnelly was in the ground and those who'd wished him farewell were murmuring and drifting away from the gravesite. Peter exchanged greetings with people he hadn't seen since Quantico, people who'd snarled at him on the phone last week, people he liked and people he didn't, and then abruptly he ceased wanting to talk to anyone at all, and decided to lurk behind a convenient evergreen shrub until Diana was ready to drive back to work. He pulled out his phone and checked for messages from El -- since the accident she'd been worried if he didn't respond quickly -- and discovered one from Neal instead: _My condolences to the Bureau on its loss,_ it said.

Since no one could see him, Peter let himself smile a little, and texted back _The Bureau says thanks,_ and then, since Diana was showing no signs of ending her conversation, went online for the fifth time that day to check if--

"They'll be signing him in a few days," said a voice from the other side of the shrub. The owner of the voice appeared a second later: he was shorter than Peter, and older, with glasses hiding intent blue eyes, and a professorial look about him. He wore a three-piece suit in proper, funereal black, but his tie varied the darkness with a faint paisley pattern in dark gray and dark purple, giving off an aura of expense and the sort of taste Neal would appreciate. He seemed outwardly calm, as if reading someone's mind was a normal everyday thing to do, but a tremor of nervous energy lurked under his pale skin.

Peter kept his mouth shut, waiting. "Pettitte," the man said. "He'll be renewing his contract. Not retiring. Again." There was a faint whiff of amusement in the last word.

"How do you figure that? There isn't anything--" Peter gestured with the phone, and then asked the question that really needed answering. "And how do you know what I was--"

"I'm good at knowing things. And any fan of the Yankees ought to be interested in the career prospects of a pitcher so close to equaling the strikeout record of Whitey Ford. Winning over twenty games in a season twice isn't anything to scoff at, either. Not that he's getting any younger, and his injury record--"

"Wait." Peter put the phone away, and patted the top of his head. "Nope, didn't think so. Left the pinstripes at home today."

"Nonetheless," the man said, and held out his hand. "Harold Jay," he said. "Pleased to meet you, Agent Burke."

_All right,_ Peter thought, _let's just run with this,_ and made a mental note to get IT to check his phone out thoroughly as soon as he got back to work. He shook the offered hand. "Always good to meet a fellow baseball fan. At a funeral. How'd you know Nick?"

"I was an admirer of Agent Donnelly's work. Though not in the sense of benefiting from it."

"Huh. You're not by any chance that Man in the Suit he was on about recently?"

Jay laughed. "Hardly," he said, shifting his stance in a way that drew attention to a stiff neck and back: not someone who could take out roomfuls of bruisers without raising a sweat. "I'm rather a fan of yours as well," he went on, blatantly changing the subject. "And of Mr. Caffrey. That was quite a talk the two of you gave at the recent conference."

"You were there?"

"My associate attended. He's more… plausible, in that regard."

"Though not, I take it, an FBI agent. Well, where there's one security breach…"

"You won't find others." Jay's mouth twitched slightly as he looked down, and then his face went blank again; it was like watching a film with a missing frame. "I liked what you had to say about working with Mr. Caffrey," he said. "That you can have faith even when trust is lacking."

Peter thought he'd controlled his expression, but Jay seemed able to read it nonetheless. "Ah," he said. "Things have changed. I do urge you to reconsider."

"I'll keep that in mind," Peter said.

"It's just that when you find someone you can really work with… though perhaps it's different for you." Jay inclined his head slightly, perhaps pointing out Diana, perhaps the entire Bureau presence. "I've had difficulties with trust myself, but I wish very much that I'd taken your lesson to heart… well, be that as it may. I just thought, circumstances being what they were, I'd like to meet you face to face."

"Circumstances?"

"I wanted to say I'm sorry."

"About what?" Jay's gaze shifted toward the cemetery, and Peter froze. "Are you confessing to murder?"

"No, or at least not in any of the usual senses. I'm not even sure it counts as a sin of omission. But I was not in time to help Agent Donnelly, nor could I do more than mitigate the severity of your car crash. I'm glad to see your arm is out of the sling."

"You've been watching me." Jay's eyes were in the habit of betraying him; he glanced, as if he couldn't help himself, toward a security camera on the wall of the nearest building. "What are you? NSA? CIA?"

"What I am, who I am, doesn't matter. Sometimes I'm able to help people through… intelligent deduction. And currently my deductions lead me to believe that you have been and will be… well, more in danger than usual."

"I'm aware of that, thanks."

"Then, since I am not at all certain I'll be able to help you when the time comes, I would advise you to choose carefully who you trust. And who you have faith in. Apparently you know the difference."

Peter laughed. "Trust is being a Yankees fan. Faith, that's being a Red Sox fan. What's your team, Mr. Jay?"

Again, the instantly-disappearing smile. "Once I would have said that I watch each game on its merits and hedge my bets every inning. Perhaps that's no longer true. We're all much less data-oriented than we think."

"So you're saying I shouldn't look at strikeouts and ERAs, I should decide based on fuzzy warm feelings?"

"There's nothing fuzzy and warm about faith. It's like trying to seize the edge of a sword. Or rather… letting it whistle over your head unhindered, without ducking." Jay seemed to consider, eyes flickering sideways. "Perhaps I should say a baseball bat. Though I am leery of stolen bases and sacrifice flies. It was very pleasant to meet you, Agent Burke. I hope our paths need not cross again."

"Yeah, same here," Peter said. Jay's eyes shifted pointedly to over his shoulder; Peter glanced back and saw Diana approaching. When he turned around Jay was walking away, a stiff, uneven, determined stride back into the mystery he'd wandered out of. Peter had his phone up in a second, trying for a photo, but all he captured was Jay's well-tailored back.

A few days later, Andy Pettitte signed a new contract, and Peter cracked open a beer to celebrate; never mind that the guy was Peter's age and nearly as creaky and injury-prone, he was going to keep doing great things. Peter trusted the Yankees to choose right, and if they didn't, all it would cost him was disappointment. His own choices were a lot more difficult and much more personally significant.

Three times he nearly picked up the phone to ask Neal over for what wouldn't be beer and baseball talk, before striking out. He didn't think he'd lost faith, not entirely -- after all, the Red Sox _had_ finally won the Series -- but trust was in the ground with dirt shoveled over it, awaiting a resurrection he wasn't sure he believed in.


End file.
